


let me show you

by mixtapestar



Series: omg they were roommates [3]
Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Non-Magical, Alternate Universe - Roommates/Housemates, Anal Sex, Anxiety, Body Worship, Friends to Lovers, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-31
Updated: 2020-10-31
Packaged: 2021-03-08 19:47:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,860
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27312115
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mixtapestar/pseuds/mixtapestar
Summary: Quentin has an awful day and comes home filled with anxiety. Eliot helps him work through it.
Relationships: Quentin Coldwater/Eliot Waugh
Series: omg they were roommates [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1986943
Comments: 15
Kudos: 63
Collections: Comfortween 2020





	let me show you

**Author's Note:**

> For Comfortween Day 31: Too Spooky! (helping someone with anxiety).
> 
> Third installment in roommates 'verse. I'd advise starting from the beginning, but this could also stand alone.
> 
> Thank you Rubi for all your help this month!

Quentin has been in a good mood for nearly an entire month. Almost four weeks since his and Eliot's heat has been fixed, and three since Eliot got the all clear to do… _most_ anything with his mouth, after his surgery. 'Going slow' went out the window after that first morning, when mutual handjobs in the shower had led to three more rounds throughout the day.

Quentin had worried, prior to that morning, that once they got going, he wouldn't be able to keep up with Eliot. But it turns out he's the one that can't get enough, practically climbing onto Eliot's lap at every available opportunity, making sure to get all his grading and planning done each day before heading home so that his nights with Eliot are free.

He can't be blamed, though. Sex with Eliot is nothing short of amazing. For all that he'd worried about getting involved with his roommate, he'd failed to consider that a relationship with _one of his best friends_ meant Eliot would _know_ him, be able to read him down to the tiniest detail at times.

It's no surprise, really, that after a month of happiness, it would all go to shit at once.

Quentin is having a truly awful, terrible day. Everything seems to be going wrong, starting with Eliot ignoring him when he gets up for the morning, through a series of clumsy and stupid events on the way to work—spilling coffee here, tripping in the mud there—and finally culminating in an afternoon of bad news. First, he gets official word that the grant he applied for, that he'd been assured was "practically a done deal", is instead going to someone else at a college in South Dakota. Nevermind that this fucks up his plans for next semester, it also _hurts_ , because he'd put a lot of thought into that application and had been so sure that others would also see the value of his research.

Not even thirty minutes later, during which he's been shuffling papers uselessly around his desk and trying to calm down, his phone rings. His anxiety spikes instantly when he sees that it's his mother, and while she does quickly assure him that his dad is still as relatively healthy as he'd been yesterday, she spends the next hour arguing with him about how they should be approaching his care. By the time Quentin hangs up, he has an immense stress headache. How she thinks she should even have a say, when she's the one that left them, is beyond him. But she lives closer, and apparently that qualifies her to get involved in their lives again.

He spends most of the subway ride home picturing how he's going to vent all of this to Eliot, but when he walks into their apartment, Eliot isn't in his usual spot on the couch. After a few seconds, he hears Eliot's voice coming from his room, so he drops his stuff by the door and calls out, "You won't believe the fucking day I'm having." He goes to push Eliot's partially-ajar door open, but Eliot is there to stop him, his phone against his ear and a finger in the air. And then without ceremony, he shuts the door in Q's face.

Quentin huffs, his annoyance quickly growing into something bigger and uglier. He kicks at Eliot's door and stomps off to his room, faceplanting onto the mattress and screaming into his pillow. He doesn't know how long he stays like that, breathing into his pillow, hating his job, hating his mother, hating Eliot and this apartment and his inability to handle even the slightest bit of stress with finesse.

So busy with his self-loathing, he doesn't hear Eliot approach until there's a dip on the mattress. "You done having your tantrum over here?" Eliot says, voice tinted with an amusement that makes Quentin's blood boil.

"Maybe I'm not," Quentin says, lifting his head just enough to glare at Eliot.

Eliot places a hand on Quentin's shoulder, and Quentin shakes it off. "Tell me what's wrong, baby."

Quentin scoffs. As if Eliot cares. "Nothing. Everything's just peachy."

"Hey, c'mon, it's me," Eliot says. "Tell me what's on your mind."

Quentin takes a deep breath and sits up a little, but when he looks over at Eliot, he finds him checking his phone. He scowls and bites out, "Just leave me the fuck alone."

"Fine," Eliot says, clenching his jaw and standing to do just that. Quentin hates himself for the crushing disappointment that washes over him; he has no one to blame but himself. Why is he so damn terrible at everything in life except pushing away the people he cares about most? He forces himself up out of bed and wraps his arms around his middle. He'll at least wait for Eliot to leave the room before slamming the door and sobbing to himself in peace.

But Eliot stops in the doorway, facing the hallway, fingers drumming against the frame. Why won't he just go? Quentin doesn't know how much longer he can hold it together. "No, wait, hang on," Eliot says, turning. "Is this one of those 'don't flirt with me _unless you mean it_ ' situations, because—"

Unable to hold himself in check any longer, Quentin feels his face crumple, a sob escaping. Eliot is back with him in an instant, enveloping him in his arms and murmuring soothingly, all traces of his anger gone. Quentin lets himself give in to the tears, wet and messy and almost certainly ruining Eliot's vest. "I can't—" he gasps out, breath coming short. He can't even fathom what he's trying to say. His brain is a jumble of failures popping into the light.

"Shh, it's okay. Let's sit down," Eliot says, guiding them back to the bed. Quentin lets go, letting the catharsis of crying wash over him, smoothing out the edges of his jumbled thoughts as Eliot holds him. Most of his day's frustrations fall away, especially the ones related to Eliot, until he's left with the two most central worries, and eventually, he finds himself able to breathe normally.

Reluctantly, he moves away from Eliot's shoulder, wiping his sleeve under his nose as he goes. Eliot brushes tears from his cheeks as he smiles down at him sweetly. "Do you feel like telling me some of what's wrong?"

Quentin takes a deep breath. "My dad—"

Eliot tenses. "What's up with your dad? Say the word, if we need to go—"

Quentin shakes his head. "No, he's fine. I mean, he's not _fine_ , he still has _cancer_ , but my _mother_ —" He chokes on another angry sob.

"Ah. Say no more," Eliot says, rubbing at his back. "Have you talked to him?"

"N-no," Quentin says, feeling dumb for not thinking of that. "I mean, not today. I dunno how much good it'd do. She's the one that's there, that makes all his stupid, bland meals. I hate it, that she's taken over. I just want him to be happy."

Eliot nods, his full attention on Quentin. He feels ridiculous for thinking that Eliot didn't care, even for a second. "Maybe we can go visit him, soon."

Quentin's breath catches. His dad has met Eliot, a few times, but never as Quentin's _boyfriend_. He'll probably be inordinately pleased, filling Eliot full of embarrassing 'Curly Q' anecdotes. "I'd love that," he says, feeling something inside him ease at the thought.

"I get the feeling that's not the only thing on your mind, though."

He sighs, a different sort of misery filling him when he changes focus. "The Laycombe Grant. I didn't get it." Eliot frowns. "It's not about the money, really. I just actually thought I had a worthwhile idea."

"Oh, Q. Of course you do. You can still get started, right? And there are other grants."

"Yeah," he says, defeated. "But this was the one that, like, Professor Van der Weghe was sure I'd get, and I didn't. So the odds of getting any of the others seem pretty slim."

"You don't know that," Eliot says softly. "Sometimes these things come down to one person's subjective opinion; you've told me that before."

"I know I have. I just— _ugh_ , I feel like such a failure."

"You're not," Eliot assures him. "You're brilliant. Trust me, I have really good taste; I don't date nobodies."

"Does this mean you're breaking up with me?" Quentin murmurs, mostly joking.

"On the contrary," Eliot says, a smirk playing at his lips. "I want to show you how much you mean to me, if you're up for it."

"I don't think I'm in any fit state to be sexy right now," Quentin says, even though Eliot's hands on his back feel warm and inviting.

"Well, lucky for you that you're sexy in any state. You won't have to do anything, just let me appreciate you. Let me take your mind off things." His fingers slide under Quentin's shirt, resting at the small of his back. "What d'you think?"

"I think that sounds lovely, El, but it may not be possible. My mind's a stubborn force."

"Don't I know it," Eliot says, leaning down to touch his forehead to Quentin's. "I'm willing to try, though, but only if you want it."

Quentin closes the distance between them, bringing their lips together in a simple, sweet kiss. "I do, I want it."

"Lie back," Eliot says gently. Quentin takes a deep breath, wiping at his face before doing as Eliot says.

Eliot stands up off the bed, toeing off his shoes and removing his vest—fuck, Quentin should probably offer to have that dry cleaned—before rejoining Quentin. He straddles his thighs, working first to get Quentin's belt loose, pulling it free and then tossing it off behind him. Next, his fingers get to work on the buttons of Quentin's shirt, while he leans in to kiss him.

Quentin moans at the slow, languid way Eliot licks inside his mouth, feeling every iota of Eliot's attention focused on him. When Eliot slides the last button free, Quentin shivers at the slight chill of his shirt falling open, then at the soft slide of Eliot's fingers over his chest.

When Eliot pulls out of the kiss, Quentin starts to go for his buttons in return, but Eliot pushes his hands away. "Let me do the touching today," he says, his voice thick and liquid like honey. Quentin swallows, his cock jerking in his pants.

"Now," Eliot places two fingers in the middle of Quentin's lower lip, "let's start here." He leans back in to bite at Quentin's lip, sucking it into his mouth before letting it go, tracing his tongue over the swollen skin. "Your mouth is amazing. I'd say it's your best feature, but I'll probably contradict myself the moment I move on to the next thing. I love the sound of your voice. You know how I've always asked you to read me excerpts of the essays you're marking? It's not because I think your students are brilliant." Quentin shudders at that. He's been reading things out loud to Eliot since practically the moment they moved in together. "And don't get me started on how your mouth _feels_ , fuck. Did you know you're the first person I've ever been with who gets excited to suck my cock? And you're so _good at it_ , _god_. I used to pride myself on my blowjob skills, but you give me a run for my money."

"Eliot," Quentin whines. His cock is straining against the confines of his underwear and slacks. He feels a bit like he's running on autopilot, any stray thought that isn't related to Eliot or his words shutting down to narrow his focus.

"That was just the first thing. Should I keep going?"

"You might kill me if you do," he says, rocking his hips to seek out some relief.

"Cause of death: fatal amounts of attention. It would look nice on your tombstone." Eliot takes mercy on him, unzipping his pants and pulling his cock free through the slit of his boxers. Quentin whimpers when he moves away from it, though, his touch fleeting.

"Next, let's see. Your hair. I've never really cared much about a guy's hair, honestly. Something to grab onto, sure, if he likes it, but _yours_." He buries a hand in Quentin's hair, fingers sliding through it. "It feels so good between my fingers. I could play with it all day. And that _sound_ that you make when I pull on it," and he does, and Quentin grunts, " _like that_ , it always goes straight to my dick."

He shifts his focus down, pushing Quentin's shirt down over his shoulders. "Mm, your chest. You should consider wearing tighter shirts, you really have the body for it. But also, don't." He slides a thumb firmly over Quentin's nipple. "Leave it all a secret, just for me to see. Either way I win."

Eliot moves down further, and Quentin thinks finally, finally he's going to touch his cock. He grips Quentin's boxers, pulling them down along with his slacks, the band sliding roughly over the length of his dick until it springs free. Eliot moves back in, settling a little further away down Quentin's legs. His palms slide over the inside of Quentin's thighs, making him squirm.

"Your thighs are a thing of beauty. I love how they shake sometimes, while I'm fucking you, like your body can't handle the intensity of it. And how tense they get, right before you come, gripping down on me so perfectly."

"El, _please_ ," Quentin keens, his cock leaking messily.

"Please? Please what?"

" _Touch me_."

"But I am touching you. All over."

"Not _all_ over," Quentin grits out, tilting his hips up to make his cock jump.

Eliot grins wickedly. "Turn over."

Quentin groans, sending a glare Eliot's way, but turns over anyway.

"Ah, yes. Your shoulders, your back," Eliot says, removing his shirt completely and smoothing his hands over him. "The hard lines of you are so attractive, Q, you don't even know. Sometimes at night when I can't sleep, I close my eyes and just appreciate the feel of you pressed up against me, so solid and hot."

Quentin hears the scrape of his nightstand drawer opening, suddenly, and turns his head to see Eliot's hand retrieving a bottle of lube. Fucking _finally_.

"How are we doing so far?" Eliot asks, settling back over Quentin's thighs. "What's on your mind?"

"That you're a fucking sadist."

Eliot laughs. "I'll accept that answer, for now. You'll be singing a different tune soon enough."

"Promises, promises," Quentin grumbles.

"Here we are, the penultimate feature," Eliot says, kneading the muscle of Quentin's ass. Quentin tries not to grouse, but if his final 'feature' is something like his fucking earlobe he's gonna be pissed. He hears the snap of the lube being opened and squirms a little against the mattress. Eliot stills him with a firm hand on his hip, muttering at him to stay still. "I'm sure it's no surprise that I'm a fan of your ass. We've gotten pretty acquainted over these past few weeks." A slick finger trails over Quentin's perineum, making him jump a little at the first touch. "It's just so pert and beautiful, _always_ ready for me," as he pushes his finger inside, "gripping me wonderfully like you've been waiting to get me inside."

"Please, Eliot, _please_ ," Quentin shouts, careless of how desperate he sounds, pushing back on Eliot's finger and reaching back to spread his cheeks.

"Relax, relax. I've got you," Eliot says, pressing his other hand flat between Quentin's shoulder blades. His finger slides out, but he's quickly back with two, pressing in with a glorious stretch. "Please what?"

"As if you don't _know_ ," Quentin bites out.

"I want you to _tell me_. Let me know how bad you want it."

"Fuck me, _please_ ," he says, the plea transforming to a moan as Eliot fingers rub deliberately over his prostate, shooting sparks of pleasure through his body.

"I will, baby, I promise. You'll feel so good. Just stay with me, let me get you ready."

Quentin buries his needy sounds into his pillow as Eliot fucks him with two fingers, then three. When Eliot finally asks him if he's ready for his cock, Quentin cuts off the question with a, "Jesus fuck, _yes_."

Eliot hums in satisfaction as he prepares; Quentin hears the cap of the lube again. "Stay just like that. I'm gonna fuck you into this mattress so good that you won't be able to look at your bed without remembering my words, the way I made you feel."

Quentin thinks that's already true, but he won't say it, not when he's so close to getting what he wants. The moment he feels the blunt press of Eliot's dick against his hole, he moans, arching his back and pressing back in anticipation.

"Relax, just let me—" and Eliot cuts himself off with his own moan, as the head of his dick pushes past Quentin's tight ring of muscle. " _God_ , Q. It's impossible, how good you feel. How beautifully you take me." He keeps sliding in, bearing down, and Quentin is _so_ ready for it, aching for that feeling of fullness that comes with Eliot bottoming out.

When he gets it, it's magical, Eliot lowering his body over his until he's completely enveloping Quentin, his thick, full cock buried inside him. " _Holy shit_ , El," Quentin whimpers, something shaking loose in his chest. "Feels so good."

And then Eliot is lifting up, bracing his hands against the mattress and _fucking him_ , drilling him into the mattress with the intensity of his thrusts. Quentin can feel the fabric of Eliot's clothes rustling against his skin, and there's something so hot about knowing Eliot is still mostly clothed, taking him like this.

The slide of him is amazing, but no matter how Quentin moves, he can't get anything more than a passing friction against his dick. "Are you ever going to touch me?" he asks, trying for anger but just sounding needy. " _My cock_ , specifically?"

"Yes, _god_ yes," Eliot says, slowing his rhythm. "How do you want it, baby? How do you want to come?"

"You mean I actually get to make a decision here?" he gripes, not sure why he's still pushing, but something thrilling in the knowledge that Eliot won't budge.

"Whatever you want," Eliot vows.

What he wants most right now is to be on top of Eliot, looking down at him for a change, seeing every detail as he takes Quentin's cock in hand. "Let me ride you."

"Mm, absolutely," Eliot answers.

When he lifts up, Quentin takes in the picture of Eliot, still mostly dressed, his sleeves rolled up and his dick jutting out of his pants, sans underwear. "You're so fucking sexy," he says as Eliot stretches out, slicking up his palm one more time before beckoning Quentin closer.

Quentin straddles him, reaching back to line his cock up against his ass, murmuring, "Fucking _finally_." His facade of anger falls away as he sinks down on Eliot's cock in one smooth motion, and then, _fuck yes_ , Eliot finally grips his cock.

"Look at you, so hard in my hand. Have you ever been this wet, before coming? I bet I didn't even need the lube, you're so slick all on your own."

Quentin keeps making these involuntary gasping sounds, working Eliot's cock into him, feeling _even fuller_ than before in this position. He can hardly focus on Eliot's words, he's so turned on. But Eliot keeps going, undaunted, somehow still coherent while Quentin is falling apart.

"Don't think I forgot. Your dick might be my favorite. It fits _so perfectly_ in my hand, and I love the way your whole body responds when I do this," and he twists his fingers just under the head, making Quentin jerk. Eliot moans as Quentin clenches down over his cock, lifting up and back down again. "You have no idea what it does to me when you come home, already at least half-hard and ready for me."

Eliot's voice is getting shakier, and Quentin can hardly stand it, the inundation of praise and pleasure surrounding him. "Please, El. _Faster_. Make me come."

" _Fuck_ ," Eliot says, hips pistoning up to meet him, his hand working over Quentin's cock rough and fast. "That's it, baby. You're so close, aren't you?"

"I'm going to ruin your shirt," he whines, even though it's far too late to worry about such things.

" _Ruin it_ ," Eliot says, and Quentin rolls his hips, feeling every last inch of Eliot inside him as his eyes slip shut and he comes, hard, shooting over Eliot's fist, shirt, and even his chin.

"Yeah, _yeah_ ," Eliot whines, his control finally seeming to slip as he pushes up into Quentin's ass, just a few shallow thrusts, and then his face slackens as he buries his cock deep inside Quentin and comes.

Quentin lifts up on his knees, slowly, gently, then sinks back down, trying to make Eliot's orgasm even better, but it's not long before he feels a little too sensitive and has to move away.

He lifts himself above Eliot's body on his hands and knees, leaning in to lick his own come from his chin, then meeting Eliot when he turns toward him for a kiss. Quentin holds himself there, kissing deeply, desperately, until he doesn't trust his legs to hold him up any longer. Eliot moves with him as he lets himself fall to the side, the kiss only breaking briefly before Eliot's tongue is back in his mouth.

Eliot shudders when he finally pulls away. "I'll be right back, okay? Don't move."

That's an easy command to follow, at least. He's so relaxed he could sleep for a week. When Eliot returns, Quentin blinks his eyes open, surprised to see Eliot finally, inexplicably naked. Eliot runs a warm, wet cloth over Quentin's sweat-slicked skin, then tosses it aside as he crawls back into bed with him.

"Good?" Eliot asks, propping himself on an elbow next to Quentin.

Quentin almost laughs. He's never felt quite so good in his body as he does right now, and that's entirely Eliot's doing. "I don't think I even have words for what that was. 'The best thing that's ever happened to me,' maybe, and I don't just mean the sex."

"Yeah?" Eliot says, staring deep into Quentin's eyes and tracing his thumb, slowly, over Quentin's cheekbone. "I've been told I can be a bit… too intense, sometimes. But with you…"

"It was amazing. _Amazing_. The only way it could be too intense is if it was like that every time. My cock would probably explode. Not in a good way."

Eliot snickers. "Well, we can't have that."

"Thank you. I don't—know what else to say." His mind is gloriously clear, for the first time in ages. "I'm having trouble believing you're real."

"Likewise, and you're welcome," Eliot says, moving in to kiss him sweetly. Eliot reaches for his hand, and their fingers slide together. Quentin may never leave this bed again.

**Author's Note:**

> And so we end Comfortween! A HUGE thank you to every single one of you that have read and supported me through this month of fics. To everyone that left kudos and especially those that left comments, know that your support was paramount to me sticking with it and getting all of this fics done and ready to share with the world. I can never thank you enough. <3


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